the white belt diaries

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m not fully here. Not in a dramatic, existential way – just quietly disconnected. Like I’m watching my life happen through glass, while my body moves through it on autopilot.

I lost my dad almost three years ago, and with him, I lost a huge part of myself. He was the person I was closest to, and his absence left a silence that no playlist, no hug and no book has managed to fill. Since then, all the creative parts of me, the ones he always encouraged, just… stopped. I stopped drawing. I stopped painting. I stopped playing the piano. Even music itself (a massive part of mine and my dad’s lives) became painful to hear.

But most of all, I lost my connection to my body. I used to feel strong and curious and capable in it. I used to practise yoga regularly, which anchored me through hard times. But now, no matter how many classes I try, I can’t seem to get that feeling back. Something has shifted within me, and I’ve spent years now not knowing how to reverse it.

My focus, energy and self-belief are dwindling. My mind and body don’t feel like they belong to each other anymore. I feel betrayed by my aching bones, my weak limbs, my shallow breath. On some level, I feel half-dead.  

It’s wild how quickly the body reverts to survival mode. I’m back where I was before I ever found yoga – a sloth with a share bag of Doritos, horizontal in front of MAFS. And she’s been winning (not that there’s anything inherently wrong with this spellbinding Australian reality TV, but it’s not exactly the healthiest hobby).

But I’ve had enough.

Something has to change, or she will drag me under – and I’ll live the rest of my life with my brain half asleep and my body always trying to catch up. So I thought: if yoga isn’t cutting it anymore, what will?

Ah yes, a martial art. Something that demands effort and failure and sweat and presence. And most importantly, not a gym machine in sight. Because let’s face it girl I am not someone who can summon the motivation to lift weights in front of a mirror.

I’ve wanted to try Brazilian Jiu Jitsu since my early twenties (now in my early thirties), back when I was listening to far too much JRE. Say what you want about Joe (and god knows, we all have), but one thing he said stuck in my mind: BJJ is the best self-defence system for women. It’s not about size. It’s about leverage, control, and staying calm under pressure. He’d go on and on about how a small woman who trains BJJ could absolutely overcome a much bigger, stronger man who doesn’t. Not with brute force, but with timing, tact and skill.

As a petite woman, I loved that idea. I still love that idea.

So here I am, slightly terrified but about to try something that might shake me out of this sleepy grief-hangover. Something that might give me my body back. Or at the very least, a reason to get up and leave the house.

This blog isn’t for an audience. It’s for accountability. Because if I don’t write it down, I know I’ll flake. I’ll forget. I’ll Netflix and crisp my way back into stillness.

Maybe this is the beginning of something.

All my love,

Mae.